“And if The Glass Door runs for two years?”
“I don’t know what would happen then. But right now, I’ll be honest with you, things are a bit tricky. This house I’m living in—it belongs to my mother. I’m living with my mother. You can see, what with things being the way they are, it is a bit tricky.”
“Yes,” said Robert. “Yes, I can see … as you say, it’s tricky.”
* * *
He put down the receiver. Jane, not turning from the window, said, “What’s so tricky?”
“He’s living with Hester, his mother. And she’s obviously refusing to let a Litton darken her door. Silly old bitch. And the drunk flatmate has had the sack, so Emma’s on her own. And, to ease his conscience, Christopher has written to Ben Litton to tell him what has happened. And I should like to tie the lot of them together with one great big millstone, and consign them all to a bottomless lake.”
“I knew this would happen,” said Jane. She turned, then, to face him, her arms still rigidly folded, and he saw that she was not only angry, but deeply upset. “It could be good, this thing between us … you know that, don’t you, as well as I do. And that’s why I didn’t tell you about Christopher, because I knew, that if you knew, it would be the end of everything.”
He wished he could say It doesn’t have to be the end, but it was impossible.
“In a way, Robert, all this time, you did keep your promise. You never mentioned Emma. But she was never out of the back of your mind.”
Now that it was said, and out in the open, he saw that this was true. He said, hopelessly, “Only because in some extraordinary way, I am involved with her.”
“If you are involved with her, it’s because you want to be. And it’s not good enough, Robert. Not for me. I won’t settle for second best. I’d rather go without. I hoped I’d made that clear. With me, it has to be all or nothing at all. I can’t go through it all again.”
He understood. But could only say that he was sorry.
“I think … perhaps, you’d better go.”
Her arms were still folded, a barrier against him. There was no way to say goodbye. He could not kiss her. He could not lightly say, “It’s been fun” in the best traditions of drawing-room comedy. And he could never forgive her for trying to keep him from Emma.
He said, “I’ll go now.”
“Yes, do that.” But as he started downstairs, she remembered something. “You left the wine.”
“Forget about the wine,” said Robert.
10
The song was over. The lights were dimmed. Charmian as Oberon moved forward for her final speech. The taped Mendelssohn music—for the meagre proportions of the Brookford Rep did not allow space for an orchestra—stole out across the dark cave of the auditorium and evoked for Emma, sitting at the prompt desk—all the distilled magic of a summer night.
Now until the break of day
Through this house each fairy stray …
It was the end of the first week of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The financial fiasco of Daisies on the Grass had driven the management to a production of Shakespeare which, although it entailed double the work for everybody, ensured an Arts Council grant and full houses, composed mostly of school children and students.
By now Emma was no longer working for Collins, the stage manager. There was a new A.S.M., a young girl fresh from drama school, dedicated, tough and seemingly immune to Collins’ barbed tongue. She was on-stage now, in the grey velvet tunic and silvered wings of Cobweb, the fairy, for the huge cast of The Dream demanded that every member of the company should be called in and given a part.
Because of this, Tommy Childers had asked Emma to come back and lend a hand with the back-stage activities. During the past fortnight she had coped with a number of jobs; helping in the wardrobe, working in the scenery store; typing scripts, and all the time nipping out for sandwiches and cigarettes, and making endless pots of tea.
To-night, she had been given the job of prompter, and had spent the evening with her eyes glued to the prompt copy, terrified of losing her place, of missing a cue, of letting somebody down. But now, as the play drew to its close, and, knowing the rest of it by heart, she allowed her concentration to relax a little, and indulged in the luxury of watching the stage.
Charmian wore a crown of emerald leaves, a silver tabard and silver tights on her long, slim legs. The audience, caught by the old magic of the words, stayed breathless, spellbound.
Trip away; make no stay;
Meet me all by break of day.
To eke out the cramped wing space on either side of the stage, Tommy Childers had had built a ramp which led down from the stage and into the centre aisle of the auditorium. Now Oberon and Titania, hand-in-hand, and followed by a retinue of fairies, made their exit down this ramp, running, with the draperies flying like exuberant wings, off the lighted stage, and down into the darkness; swift and quiet; up the aisle and out of the double doors at the back with such an airy suddenness that they were gone almost without a sound, without a trace.
And then it was left to Sara Rutherford, playing Puck, as a tilt-eared teenager, with the stage to herself and a single spotlight.
If we the shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended.
She had a little pipe. When she got to “So good night unto you all,” she played on it the single thread of notes that was the theme of the Mendelssohn music.
Then, triumphant, “Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.” And darkness, and curtain, and applause.
All over. Emma let out a sigh of relief that nothing had gone wrong, shut the prompt copy and sat back in her chair. The cast were surging back on stage for the first curtain call. As he went past her, the boy who played Nick Bottom leant over to whisper,
“Tommy asked me to tell you—there’s some chap waiting to see you. He’s been sitting in the Green Room for half-an-hour, but Tommy’s put him in his office. Thought it might be a bit more private for you. Better go and see what it’s all about.”
“To see me? But who is it?”
But Bottom was already on stage. The curtain swept up, there was a fresh burst of applause, and smiles and bows and curtseys …
Emma’s first thought was that it was Christo. But if it was Christo, why hadn’t he said? She went down the wooden steps and along the cat-walk that led to the landing at the head of the stage door stairs. Ahead, down a short passage, the Green Room door stood ajar, showing a glimpse of sagging velvet sofa, the old playbills framed on the walls. Tommy Childers’ office led off this passage. The door was shut.
Behind her, the applause died down, and then rose again for the second curtain call.
She opened the door.
It was a tiny room, scarcely bigger than a cupboard; scarcely big enough to contain the desk, and a couple of chairs and a filing cabinet. He sat behind the desk, in Tommy’s chair, behind Tommy’s personal and private chaos of scripts and letters and programme proofs and production notes. The wall behind him was thumb-tacked with stage photographs. Someone had made him a cup of tea, but he had not deigned to drink it, and it stood before him, horribly cold, untouched. He wore pearly-grey trousers, a russet corduroy jacket, a dark blue cotton shirt and a chrome yellow tie, loosely tied, so that his top button showed. He was browner than ever, and he looked about ten years younger, and almost indecently attractive.
He was smoking an American king-size cigarette, and an ash-tray full of butts was indicative of the length of time he had been waiting for Emma. When she came through the door, he turned his head to look at her, resting his elbow on the desk, his chin on his thumb. His eyes, through the veil of cigarette smoke, remained dark and shadowed and quite unreadable.
He said, sounding mildly irritated, “What have you been doing?” and Emma was too stunned to do anything but tell him.
“Prompting.”
“Well, come along in and shut the door.”
She did as she was
told. The applause from the auditorium was closed away. She found that her heart was thudding, but whether this was due to shock, or pleasure, or a certain apprehension it was impossible to know. She said at last, feebly, “I thought you were in America.”
“I was, this morning. Flew back to-day. And yesterday … at least I suppose it was yesterday, these International date lines and clocks being changed complicate life to an alarming degree … I was in Mexico. Yes; yesterday. Acapulco.”
Emma felt for a chair, lowered herself gently on to it before her legs gave way.
“Acapulco?”
“Do you know that the aeroplanes that fly to Acapulco are all painted different colours? And as you go south, the air hostesses do a sort of uniform strip tease. Fascinating.” He continued to survey her. “Emma, there’s something different about you. That’s it, you’ve cut your hair. What a good idea! Turn around and let me see the back.” She did so, swiveling her head cautiously, and watching him out of the corner of her eye. “Much better. Never knew you had such a good shape to your head. Have a cigarette.”
He pushed the packet across the desk. Emma took one, and he lit it for her, leaning forward, cupping the flame with his familiar and beautiful hands. As he shook out the match he said, casually, “A great many letters have been winging their way across the Atlantic. None of them written by you.”
It was a rebuke. “No. I know.”
“Difficult to understand. Not that I minded in particular—though I must say, as it was about the first letter I’d ever written you, it would have been pleasant to get a reply. But with Melissa it was different. She wanted you to come out to the States, and be with us, if only for a short visit. You’ve always been rather good about these things. What happened?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I was … disappointed because you didn’t come home. And the idea of your being married took a bit of time to get used to. And then, by the time I got round to accepting it … it had become too late to answer your letters. And every day that passed made it worse; made it more impossible. I never knew that if you did something you weren’t particularly proud of … it became progressively difficult to undo it again.” He did not comment on this. Simply continued to smoke, to watch her. “You said a great many letters. Who else did you hear from?”
“Well, I heard from Marcus, of course. That was business. And than a rather stilted, formal affair from Robert Morrow. Saying that he’d been here to see some play or other, and had had a drink with you and Christopher. I couldn’t gather, however, whether he had come specifically to see the play or to see you.”
“Yes. Well…”
“As soon as we realised that you were still alive and apparently occupied and with no intention of visiting us, Melissa and I set off in our coloured aeroplane for Mexico where we stayed with a mad old film star who lives in a house full of parakeets. Then, yesterday, we flew back to Queenstown, and what should I find waiting for me but yet another letter.”
“From Robert?”
“No. From Christopher.”
She could not help it. “From Christopher?”
“He must be an exceptionally talented young man. A London production, so soon, with so little experience. Of course, I always knew that he’d make a flagrant success of his life. Either that or end up in prison…”
But even this provocation could not divert her. “You mean Christopher? Wrote to you?”
“Said in that tone of voice, it sounds insulting.”
“But why?”
“One can only imagine that he felt mildly responsible.”
“But…” An idea was forming. A suspicion so wonderful that, if it was not true, then it must be scotched immediately. “But you didn’t come home because of that letter? You came home to paint. To go back to Porthkerris and paint again?”
“Well, of course, taking the long view, I have. Mexico was inspiring. They have an extraordinary pink that keeps recurring in their buildings, and their pictures, and their very clothes…”
“Perhaps you’d had enough of Queenstown, and America,” she persisted. “You’ve never been much good at staying in any one place for more than a couple of months. And, of course, you’ll have to see Marcus. And start thinking about a new exhibition.”
He stared at her blankly. “Why this catalogue of motives?”
“Well, there has to be some reason.”
“I’ve just told you. I came to see you.”
She did not want the cigarette he had given her. She leaned forward and stubbed it out, and then clasped her hands in her lap, the palms pressed tight together, the fingers interlaced. Misinterpreting her silence, Ben looked aggrieved. “I don’t think, Emma, that you quite understand the situation. I literally flew in from Mexico, read Christopher’s letter, kissed Melissa goodbye and flew out again. Didn’t even have time to change my shirt. I then subjected myself to another twelve hours of flying, the tedium broken only by a series of uneatable meals, all of which tasted like plastic. Do you think I endure such tortures simply to talk to Marcus Bernstein about another exhibition?”
“But, Ben…”
He was, however, well away, and in no mood to be interrupted.
“And, once arrived, do I go to Claridges, where Melissa has thoughtfully cabled in advance and reserved me a room? Do I indulge in a bath, or a drink, or a decent meal? No. I climb into the slowest taxi-cab this side of the Atlantic, and drive, through unspeakable rain, to Brookford” (he said the word as though it were something distasteful), “where, after interminable incorrect directions, I eventually run the Repertory theatre to earth. The taxi is at this moment outside, ticking up a monumental fare. And if you don’t believe me, you can go and look.”
“I believe you,” said Emma, quickly.
“And then, when you do deign to appear, all you can talk about is Marcus Bernstein and some hypothetical exhibition. Do you know something? You’re an ungrateful brat. A typical example of the modern generation. You don’t deserve to have a father.”
She said, “But I’ve been alone before. For years I’ve been alone. In Switzerland and Florence and Paris. You never came to see me then.”
“You didn’t need me then,” said Ben flatly. “And I knew what you were doing, and who you were with. This time, when I read that letter from Christopher, I knew the first, faint stirrings of concern. Perhaps because Christopher, of all people, would never have written if he hadn’t been concerned himself. Why didn’t you tell me you’d met him in Paris?”
“I thought you wouldn’t be pleased.”
“It depends on what sort of a person he’s turned into. Has he changed very much from the small boy who lived with us at Porthkerris?”
“He looks the same … but he’s tall … he’s a man now. Single-minded and ambitious and, perhaps, a little self-centered. And with all the charm in the world.” Talking about him, to Ben, was like having a weight lifted from her shoulders. Emma smiled. She said, “And I adore him.”
Ben, accepting this, returned the smile. “You sound like Melissa, talking about Ben Litton. It seems that young Christopher and I have, after all, much in common. It’s ironic that we should have wasted so many years in detesting each other. Perhaps I should make his acquaintance again. This time, we might get on a little better.”
“Yes, I think you might.”
“Melissa is joining me in a week or two. Coming down to Porthkerris.”
“Living at the cottage?” said Emma, unbelieving.
Ben was amused. “Melissa? At the cottage? You must be joking. A suite has already been reserved at the Castle Hotel. I shall lead the life of a goldfish in a bowl, but perhaps, as I get older, the sybaritic existence is beginning to reveal its charms.”
“But didn’t she mind? Your coming home like that? Kissing her and leaving her without even taking time to change your shirt?”
“Emma, Melissa is a clever woman. She doesn’t try to pin a man down or to possess him. She knows that the best way to hold on to someone you
love is to … very gently … let him go. Women take a long time to learn this. Hester never did. How about you?”
“I’m learning,” said Emma.
“The extraordinary thing is, I believe you are.”
By now, darkness had fallen. This had happened, unheeded, while they talked, the dusk deepening imperceptibly until Ben’s face, across the tiny distance that separated them, was simply a blur, his hair a wing of white. There was a lamp on the desk, but neither of them reached out to turn it on. The twilight enclosed them, the shut door kept the rest of the world out. They were the Littons; a family; together.
As they talked, the backstage shell of the theatre had rung with routine sounds. The last curtain call. Voices; Collins swearing at some unfortunate electrician. Hurrying feet, running upstairs to the dressing-rooms, anxious to be away, to be free of costumes and make-up, to catch buses, to go home, to cook food and wash stockings and, perhaps, to make love. Footsteps passed to and fro, in and out of the Green Room, Darling, have you got a cigarette? Where’s Delia? Has anybody seen Delia? There wasn’t a phone call for me, was there?
The sounds thinned out, as in twos and threes they left the theatre. Down the stone stairs, out of the banging door, into the narrow alley. A car started up. Somewhere a man started to whistle.
Behind Emma the door was abruptly opened, and the soft darkness split with an oblong of yellow light.
“Sorry to interrupt you…” It was Tommy Childers … “Wouldn’t you like some illumination?” He snapped on the switch, and Ben and Emma were transfixed, blinking, like a couple of sleepy owls. “I just wanted something off my desk, before I go home.”
Emma stood up, pulling her chair out of the way.
“Tommy, did you know this was my father?”
“I wasn’t sure,” said Tommy, smiling at Ben. “I thought you were in America.”
“Everybody thought I was in America. Even my wife did until I said goodbye to her. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you, sitting here for so long in your office.”
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